


Nightmare

by courtneythenerd



Series: The Get Down Crew [4]
Category: The Get Down (TV)
Genre: M/M, Whoever Said You Need A Plot?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 08:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9115717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courtneythenerd/pseuds/courtneythenerd
Summary: Shaolin has a nightmare. Zeke is there for him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oceanyeon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanyeon/gifts).



> Inspired by insomnia, nightmares and a strong desire for more Zeke x Shao.

_Her hands were always so soft._

_They’re almost too soft for Shaolin’s face, hardened by the Bronx and Annie and fire and death. Her hands were almost too warm for Shaolin’s face, turned cold by fear and anger and desperation._

_“Mama loves you,” she slurs her words. Her eyes drift, never settling on one spot on Shaolin’s face. Her smile is bleary and lopsided._

_It’s the crack talking, Shaolin tells himself. It’s always the crack talking. It’s the one thing she loves, the only thing that could really move his mother. Shaolin knows this too well. He can’t afford to believe a damn word she says._

_But her touch. But she presses her hand against Shaolin’s face, firm yet gentle. And when she smiles, Shaolin sees no drug. He just sees his mother._

_“You don’t love me. I don’t love me. But I’ll always love you.”_

_The words are knives stabbing Shaolin in the chest, and he gasps for air as his mother’s hand begins to fade. Tears run down his face like blood pouring from a gunshot wound as his mother’s blurry smile cracks and falls away from Shaolin’s eyes._

_“Ma.”_

_He can’t say the words. Not even to his own fucking mother._

_“Ma, please.”_

_Ma. Mama. MAMA_

*

Shaolin bolts upright and knows he’s dying. He has to be—why else is his heart beating so fucking fast? This is what men feel right before they take their last breaths, isn’t it? Scared, panicked, with their fucking hearts beating too fast.

Shaolin can’t move. He grips the side of the mattress and tells himself that he needs to get up, call somebody, walk around, do something to make his heart stop beating so fast. His mother’s voice rings in his head—his splitting head—and his breath catches in his throat.

Shaolin’s going to die. He can’t breathe, his head is being torn right down the middle. His chest hurts and his stomach is screaming. His heart is beating too fast, and Shaolin knows he’s going to die; he’s going to die; he’s going to die. He’s going to up and fucking die--

“Shao?”

Zeke.

Zeke sits up, one of his eyes still half closed, and looks over at his boyfriend. Shaolin, still petrified, can’t turn to look at him. He looks forward, willing his body to be as soft and slow as Zeke’s sleep-heavy voice.

Zeke drapes his warm arm across Shaolin’s bare back.

_Oh._ Shaolin’s body listens to Zeke and not Shaolin.

Almost instantly, he begins to calm. Muscles that were rigid loosen. His breath finds its way up his throat and out of his nostrils. The pain in his head dulls, the pressure draining down Shao’s face.

Even Shao’s heart begins to slow. Punishing blows become steady beats. Harshness gives way to tenderness often denied.

Calm pours over Shaolin as he settles into Zeke’s touch. Zeke’s soft and warm, and for a moment Shaolin wants to crawl away, to sit himself on the temple’s floor instead of the mattress he and Zeke share. But Zeke knows how to make Shaolin’s body freeze even better than he knows how to set it into motion. Zeke can either make Shaolin feel too fast or too slow; too jittery or too calm. Zeke gives too much or not enough for Shaolin’s greedy self. And there’s never any in-between.

“You have a nightmare?” Zeke asks, drowsiness pitching his voice even lower than usual.

Shaolin nods mutely. He’s still just barely holding himself together.

But that’s okay. That’s what Zeke is for.

Zeke pulls Shaolin closer to him.  He doesn’t ask if Shaolin wants to talk about it; if Shaolin wants to speak, he will. Sometimes the nightmares are beyond words. Sometimes, touch is the only way to make them go away.

_Touch._ Shaolin twists around until he and Zeke are face-to-face. Without prompt, question or command, Zeke spreads his legs open to let Shao even closer. Shao pulls himself into the space, placing his hands on either side of Zeke.

_Too much_. Shao’s damn near in Zeke’s lap, and if they get any closer Zeke will be stealing Shaolin’s breath. Shaolin leans his head against Zeke’s chest and takes slow breaths. The rhythm of Zeke’s rising and falling chest leads Shaolin, guiding him to a space where this isn’t overwhelming.

Zeke places a hand on the center of Shaolin’s back, rubbing it gently.

“I got you, okay?” Zeke mutters into Shaolin’s ear. “You good. I got you.”

_Not enough_. Shao lifts his head, and finds himself staring directly into Zeke’s eyes.

He wants to be closer.

Shaolin pulls himself the rest of the way into Zeke’s lap. Zeke laughs; the rough sounds split the quiet night air, giving it sound and color. Zeke wraps his arms around Shao’s waist and laughs. He leans his forehead against Shaolin’s and laughs again.

“Fuck you laughing at?” Shaolin whispers, his lips moving against Zeke’s.

“You really having nightmares?” Zeke asks teasingly. “Or you just want a reason to get all up on me?”

Shaolin could answer.  He could tell Zeke about his mother and the crack and smell of smoke in a small apartment. He could tell Zeke about the way Annie screams or the look on cops face when they kick in a door and find a five year-old sitting next to a passed-out crackhead. Shao could tell Zeke about almost dying again and again and again.

But why the fuck would he want to do that?

He’d much rather kiss Zeke. He’d much rather catch Zeke’s bottom lip in-between his teeth and let the sound of the resulting moan travel all the way down to Shaolin’s groin.

But Zeke’s not one to just be kissed; he kisses back. Hard.

And when Shaolin’s too focused on the feeling in the bottom of his stomach, Zeke gets the upper hand.

But Shaolin doesn’t care; he’ll give Zeke the upper hand if it pushes the nightmares away. Shaolin will lie on his back—will move underneath Zeke’s body—for the rest of his life if it feels like _this_.

If it feels like Zeke’s heat covering Shaolin’s cold. If it feels like Zeke’s lips, pulling and tugging at Shaolin’s. If it feels like Zeke grinding down—down

harder

harder

Like— _shit_

Zeke.

“I love you, Shao.”

_Zeke._

“I love you, too.”

_Zeke_.

*

Shaolin will have all the nightmares in the world if they feel like Zeke.

*

Moonlight pours into the window, turning the room blue.

Shaolin, tangled up in thin sheets and Zeke’s legs, looks up at his sleeping wordsmith.

He’ll tell Books about the nightmares. Someday.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Also a gift to OceanPrinxe, who leaves me nice comments and is also in love with Zeke x Shao.


End file.
